Shake it out
by dead-dodo
Summary: Richard and Isobel. Broken tension


He turns and struggles. He knew from the moment that he met her it was never going to be easy, never entirely comfortable, that she was, in the nicest way, trouble, not just for Lady Violet, but him as well (but could he have known how much?) He turns again wrapped up in too many bits of material.

He is a doctor and used to argument, to challenge, to criticism, to difference of opinion (and heaven knows she had ticked all those boxes and surely more) he shifts again, his tie now gone; it was too much, too restrictive. He had told her they would sink or swim together (was it even possible to do both at the same time?) and they had worked well together, or not, he couldn't decide sometimes.

Then the war, changes and upheaval never seeming to end, frayed tempers, sleepless nights and her fights with Cora. He had made them equal and then she ran, after all he had done, she ran, ran to France. Christ that annoyed him, her standing there saying she hoped someone would miss her. No, He thought 'annoyed' didn't quite cover it, he had given her an important job and it was all for nothing, thrown back like an unwanted gift. She had never given up before, so why then? and what was she hoping that he would say in reply exactly? (He thinks knows now) He clenches his fist at the memory, too tight; he releases the tension slightly, relinquishing control and moves again, if he could only get settled.

And after the war she was back and irritating him again, the hospital, the Spanish flu, the endless good causes and something in him just snapped.

His head unexpectedly hits the blissfully cool pillow chilling his cheek (had it just been turned over? Probably) it is a relief, clearing the fog (but only slightly) but the rest of him is burning, the heat of her over his lower body, it would be hell if it wasn't heaven at the same time. Her knees slightly squashing his ribs (what a sweet way to suffocate) her nails racking down his chest following the line of hair lower, lower, lower, right there, yes, just there, exactly there, don't move.

He moves her hand, it is too much, and too soon, he's not finished with her yet. He kisses her wrist, tongue soothing the skin where he had gripped it too tight in their struggle. It's the eye of the storm, a chance to catch their breath, then he grabs and pulls and she falls and is covered, hands pinned as he tugs at her clothing while she twists and turns, to help or hinder, he can't tell, doesn't care.

Finally they are there, (finally), reduced to themselves and its bliss and its gentle, time ticking slow. Noses in hair, fingers tracing idle patterns, soft lips soothing where teeth had been a few moments before, the battle is over (but he doesn't know about the war). There is warmth, warmth spreading everywhere as his hands move and she bites her lip, her breath catching as he nuzzles that spot, just a bit more, a bit harder. He is so hungry for this and he wants to be here and lie like this, to sate himself after so long. Her hands are in his hair, pushing and pulling (which?) while she wriggles her soft thighs against his cheek, trapping him and holding him.

He runs his fingers through her messy hair, he can wait, wait for her afterglow to fade, wait for her breathing to slow, wait as her unfocused eyes blink at his, after all hasn't he waited enough already? Then all of a sudden she on him again trying to take control (will she never learn, will he?). She couldn't really think he was going to let her be on top? That would never happen (oh the lies). He's a progressive man, respectful to women, supportive of their rights but in some places men just have to dominate. (But hasn't he dreamt about it? Fantasized about it? Wondered about it?)

He pins her again silencing her protests with his hot mouth on hers, muffling her, claiming her. They twist and wriggle together he finally has her trapped he thinks, her chest heaving under his, hands safely enclosed, but she has trapped him as well, her tongue in his mouth, her legs entwined with his, her foot gliding gently up the back of his leg.

He wont win (he knows) but can't lose (with her as his prize?) and she is so encouraging despite the tightness, it's like he's a young boy again, it could be 30 years ago, 40 perhaps, but he cant think about that now. She's better than he imagined, in all the little details that fantasy doesn't give, the feel, the smell and sounds. Other women never gave him any of this and its thrilling him, spreading over him, the smell of her hair, the hot breath on his shoulder, nails clutching and the sounds, oh god the sounds, sounds guiding him, sound encouraging him, entrapping him and its everything he craved.

His shoulder is on fire as she bites on it when the tension in her shatters. If only he could join her, every muscle is humming, why can't he let go? (but have this moment last?). Her fingers are moving now and he focuses on one that is going to his neck, gently moving up his spine into his hair and mussing it causing his scalp to blaze. Her other hand going down his spine to rub the base, and that's what he needed, just that, exactly that, her healing touch making him come alive.

He strokes the mass of hair that has drifted over his chest as it cascades in untamed beauty, her head on his arm, back against his side. He should be sleeping, be rested for the return to the hospital, get up, get dressed, move, but it's taken so long to get here that, for now, he just needs to stay.


End file.
